Blaise
by Eilynne
Summary: Told through the eyes of Blaise Zambini, who might as well be called an original character for all she appears in the books. Mild PG. I have to say I'm not really sure where I'm headed with this, but it's my first fanfiction :-)


  
  
Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J. K. Rowling. And I'm not making money off this.  
  
Rating: PG, for one use of a seven-letter word beginning with "b". There will most likely be more uses of the same word in later chapters ^_-   
  
A/N: I guess you could call this small part a teaser of sorts, though there isn't much else of this story at the moment. I actually got the idea for the story from a small, insignificant line in chapter 15 of Draco Sinister by C. Claire (am I allowed to say her name? ^_^), mentioning that Blaise Zambini was 1) in fact, a girl, 2) moreover, the prettiest girl in Slytherin, and most importantly of all, 3) a girl dancing with Draco Malfoy. ^_^ So I owe an infinitesimal debt to her.   
  
This is my first fanfiction, by the way ^_^ If you hate it and it sucks, please at least leave some useful comments on your way out.   
  
  
  
The Slytherin common room was studying. At least I assumed so, from the sounds around me that I was able to partially block out of my head. Everything always got muffled in this way when I was studying.  
  
"Hey, Blaise," said Draco Malfoy. "Let me borrow your Arithmancy notes."  
  
I looked up. For a second, I saw him as Pansy Parkinson did: totally suave, confident, and irresistible. He was possibly the most popular person in Slytherin house, not that I cared. In my muggle life, had it been allowed to continue, Draco would no doubt had been one of those charming jerks in high school, the kind that wraps everyone, teachers and friends alike around their thumb, the kind all the girls fall for, no matter how hard they try not to.  
  
But I was not Pansy Parkinson. Not by a long shot, thank you very much. To begin with, our eyes are not alike in the least. Mine would never be able to express such absolute feelings of adulation towards anyone. And sometimes, I find myself wondering if even my heart would be able to...  
  
And so I only indulged in this illusion for one second. Just one.  
  
"Why?" I said, coolly.  
  
I answered myself silently, before he could reply: Because I'm the cleverest witch in our year, at least in Slytherin. Because he was snickering in the in the back row with Crabbe and Goyle over Hermione Granger yesterday in class while I was in the front, hanging on to Professor Vector's every word and studiously taking notes, as I always did. (I really couldn't afford not to.) And because I happened to be sitting just on table away from him, and because poor Zachary Nott, sitting next to me, no matter how ambitiously he worked in Arithmancy, had never really gotten the hang of note-taking and had dismal grades every quarter, which Draco knew.  
  
He also thought I was going to give him the notes, in typical simpering Pansy style.  
  
Draco looked vaguely shocked at my answer.  
  
See? I should have been a clever little Ravenclaw.  
  
"Surely you can't be asking why. You must know we have a test tomorrow in Arithmancy. I take terrible notes; you on the other hand transcribe entire lectures. I couldn't possibly have any chance of passing the test without your help, Blaise."  
  
He grinned.  
  
I retched inside, albeit lightly.  
  
"No."  
  
He couldn't believe his ears, that poor thing. I don't know why. We've been doing this since second year, ever since he figured out that I was the smartest person in our class, and that people usually gave him what he wanted, Professor McGonagall excluded.  
  
"What? Come on Blaise. Help a fellow Slytherin out."  
  
I gritted my teeth. That bastard. "Don't be dense, Draco. I said no. You'll have to borrow off of your cronies' notes."  
  
As if Crabbe and Goyle didn't usually copy off Draco! I gathered everything into my book bag and headed down to the prefects' meeting that was going to begin in 15 minutes. It never hurt to be early. In this case, I would have the added benefit of getting away from Draco Malfoy. Before I exited the room, however, I looked around for the sixth and seventh year Slytherin prefects, wondering what they were doing. But they were nowhere in sight. Oh well, I thought.  
  
I entered the staff room, expecting to be the only person in the room besides McGonagall, who no doubt would already be there.  
  
Instead, twelve pairs of eyes suddenly swiveled towards the door, where I stood gaping. The twelfth pair belonged to McGonagall, who stood at the head of the table, surveying me. "Miss Zambini, this meeting started exactly ten minutes ago. As a prefect, you are to set an example for the rest of the school. I expect you to be present and on time for all meetings." Her lips were drawn tightly and her gaze was unwavering.  
  
I ought to say something, I thought. Her eyes are going to burn two perfectly round holes right through my skull if I keep standing here like an idiot. I cleared my throat. "Professor, I thought the meeting was at 8:30."  
  
"Ah, so Mr. Pucey failed to inform you that the meeting was rescheduled to allow for Quidditch practice, contrary to what he has just told me. Very well, take a seat."  
  
As I sat down in the only available seat (between Hermione Granger and Terry Boot), I shot Derek Pucey (younger brother of Adrian) a venomous glare. Was he going to get it for making me late to the first meeting of the year. He quailed a bit.   
  
McGonagall repeated some things for my benefit, and then went on explaining the procedures for this year. At first, I paid rapt attention, but then she started to talk about what we were to do in the event that Hogwarts was attacked. The prefects would be responsible for leading the students safely away from the danger, and so on...  
  
Several of the prefects gasped at her words, though none of the Slytherins did, and neither did Hermione Granger, I noticed. Her face was grim and set. I knew I should have been listening, but it was becoming harder and harder to block out the part of mind that insisted on bringing the memories of last summer back up to the surface. I let myself succumb to them, and Professor McGonagall's voice became like intermittent static in the background of a blaring radio, playing a horrible, yet cruelly addictive song over and over...   



End file.
